It was nearly midday, however, before the friends could talk alone. There was mass to be said, communion to be given to the people, some affairs of state to be settled. At last the two men could retire to Severo’s balcony, break their fast together, and talk.
‘Supposing, Magister,’ said Severo, ‘there were a man who had been taught not that God exists and deserves worship, and demands obedience, but that this was a matter on which each man was free to decide for himself. Supposing he were a citizen of a country in which no absolute doctrine was promulgated to the people; in which a man might decide that there was indeed a God and worship him according to the manner of a Saracen or of a true Christian at his whim . . .’
‘There is no such country,’ said Beneditx.
‘We are to suppose that there is. It is called Aclar.’
‘Well, and if there be? Are we to suppose that the true faith is known to some people there and can freely be taught there?’
‘As I understand it, yes. But bear with me, Beneditx. There are Christians in this country, and Saracens, and Jews, and various pagans, and those of no allegiance at all. As you might expect in such a babel, there are unbelievers. But now you are to suppose that in that country there is a man who concludes that there is no God . . .’
‘He is a fool,’ said Beneditx.
‘Possibly.’
‘Certainly. Is it not written, “The fool hath said in his heart there is no God”?’
‘You would need to assert, not that such an opinion may be that of a fool,’ said Severo, mildly, ‘but that only a fool could hold such an opinion.’
‘A fool, or worse. But Severo, you did not summon me away from my peaceful labours in order to chop logic with me about imaginary countries and supposed states of mind. What is afoot?’
‘There is a man under this roof who calls himself an atheist. He has appealed to me. Before I see him, I need advice.’
‘An atheist from Aclar?’
‘So he says. And Beneditx, the question is, could an atheist conceivably be in good faith? If, clearly, as I understand from this transcript, he knows of Holy Scripture, but has rejected it.’
‘A transcript?’
‘Of his interrogation by the Consistory Court. But they had barely opened proceedings when he appealed over their heads to me.’ Severo put the curling papers on the table between them and waited, sipping at his wine and water, while Beneditx read.
When Beneditx looked up, Severo asked, ‘Is this man under an obligation to accept Holy Scripture as the word of God?’
‘Every Saracen and every Jew on Grandinsula, and in many another place, has encountered Holy Scripture . . .’ said Beneditx, ‘but we allow that before ever they met with it, they were immersed in a contrary teaching. So that one who has been persuaded from childhood that Mohammed is the one true prophet and has superseded Christ cannot be expected to see the Gospels in the light in which they appear to the soul who approaches them free from any burden of error.’
‘But,’ said Severo, ‘this man seems to have met the Gospel as only one among many sacred texts. How do we judge someone who has met the truth amidst a plethora of contending claims and a clamour of voices each declaring the truth of their own message and the error of every other? Someone who knows many religious systems at once in a land where authority has abdicated and nothing is taught to the people as having a prior claim on their assent? Might that be an obstacle in the path of understanding as extreme as the prior acceptance of false teaching?’
‘It might indeed,’ said Beneditx. ‘Or perhaps, Severo, a worse one. Such a situation would be a scandal to the people, it might corrode the very idea of a single truth, a one true way; it might lead a man to suppose that any religion was as good as any other . . .’
‘Do you think it might excuse a man who said there was no God?’
‘It might excuse a good deal of confusion.’
‘We are not talking of someone who calls God by strange names or offers him barbaric worship and alien obedience, however. We are talking of someone who goes beyond doubt and declares himself certain that there is no God. And I am asking you, Magister, whether it is true that such a one must have refused grace, must have sinned against truth. Surely, the existence of God is known to natural reason?’
‘It is knowable by natural reason, Severo. But the reasoning in question is arduous, and many men have not the strength of mind for it, while the majority of men could never have the leisure and the freedom from worldly duties to undertake it.’
‘There is not an obligation to reason for oneself that God exists?’
‘An obligation to try is not an obligation to succeed.’
‘Then I need not condemn the man?’
‘Oh, yes, Brother, you must. We cannot talk as though a man might be without knowledge of God by some accident, as he might be without knowledge of Latin. For knowledge of God is inborn. Innate in every human soul. So powerful, so clear that in nations far from the mercy of God men are driven to worship idols, calves of gold, sticks, stones, rivers and trees, the moon and the sun . . .’
‘And a man who worships nothing . . .’
‘Has darkened knowledge; refused enlightenment. Is one who has once known the truth and has reneged on it. Is a heretic.’
‘But Beneditx, is it known for certain that knowledge of God is innate? Do all the doctors of the church agree on that? I cannot clearly remember the texts, the exegesis for that . . .’
‘Give me a few hours, Severo,’ said Beneditx, ‘and I will show you something.’
Beneditx was gone some hours. His quest took him, not as Severo had supposed it would, to the cathedral library, but into the streets of Ciudad. And when he returned, shortly before sunset, he did not return alone. He was carrying a bundle of rags and accompanied by a woman. The woman was dirty and barefoot, and her clothes, which were ragged and faded and knotted together on her person, as though every lace and button had been torn from them, had once been of bright colours – scarlet and yellow and blue. She was nut-brown, with the haggard features of poverty. Beneditx strode, unhesitating, through the gates to the cloister, and the woman, uttering a faint sound of dismay, made to follow him, but the porter stopped her. In a furious tone he growled the usual prohibitions about women in a nest of clergy, and stepped in front of her, his arms outstretched to bar her way. She called frantically to Beneditx’s retreating back, ‘Master!’
He looked round. ‘Can you cover your head?’ he asked her. She found a loose stretch of torn blue muslin about her somewhere and covered her matted dark locks. ‘Let her in,’ said Beneditx.
‘But, Magister, it is forbidden . . .’
‘Nothing is forbidden to the pure in heart,’ said Beneditx.
‘But . . .’
‘I command you.’
The porter stepped aside, and the woman scurried under the arch to join Beneditx as though it were death to be parted from him. ‘Keep your eyes on the ground and follow me closely,’ said Beneditx, crossing the courtyard and opening the door to the clergy’s lodgings. As though every priest in the entire establishment, every deacon, every humble clerk had seen the little scene at the gate, as though the news could travel through the walls of the cells and offices, an appalled murmur followed them, doors were opened a crack, every pen in the scriptorium was stilled as they passed the door which stood open to admit the evening air and dilute the smell of ink. Someone ran for the canon residentiary, to fetch him to eject the unthinkable intruder; a little group of the bolder prebends, whispering in horrified tones, followed the woman along the corridors to Severo’s cell nearly as closely as she followed Beneditx, and at the gate the porter loudly complained to a pair of prebends who had come to anathematize him.
‘What is that?’ he was saying. ‘I have never heard that: “nothing is forbidden to the pure in heart?” That is what he told me.’
‘That’s antinomianism, I think,’ said Prebend Pere.
‘What’s antinomianism?’
‘A heresy. A deadly and recurring one, Brother.’
‘Holy Mary protect us all,’ said the porter, crossing himself.
Severo, reading the evening office, heard something – the unusual footfalls and agitated voices. Like fluttered feathers in a pigeon loft, the barely audible sounds wafted a sense of something wrong. Then, knocking once, Beneditx entered his cell. A very unhushed angry voice was raised at once. The canon residentiary, saying, ‘How dare you bring a . . . a . . . to the cardinal’s private quarters!’
‘She is quite safe,’ said Beneditx. ‘I have not brought her to yours!’ And pushing the woman into Severo’s cell, he slammed the door in the canon’s face and slid the bolt, rattling it noisily. She leaned against the wall just within the door, trembling. Beneditx put the bundle of rags down on the table among Severo’s books, whereupon it emitted a faint and bleating cry.
Severo, who till that moment had remained kneeling, with his breviary open before him, rose. Beneditx, leaning over his bundle, was unwrapping a baby. ‘Come and look,’ he said. The baby was very new. Its legs were drawn up to its chest, and its feet were crossed over. Severo, astonished, reached out a finger and touched the sole of one tiny wrinkled foot. The toes flexed upwards at his touch. The babe’s arms waved aimlessly, now it was unwrapped, like fronds in a gentle wind, until, its hand encountering Beneditx’s finger, it held tight, all five of its curled fingers together grasping one of Beneditx’s to the first joint.
‘I didn’t know . . .’ said Severo.
‘That they could be so small? They are grown considerably before the parents bring them for baptism,’ said Beneditx.
‘A marvel, indeed,’ said Severo. The babe smelt of milk and sourness.
‘Look at her eyes,’ Beneditx told him. ‘What do you see?’
Her eyes were dark. They seemed large for so small a visage. As Severo leaned over her she kicked and almost smiled. But the swimming vagueness of her eyes did not change. They were like windows to the night sky, or the deeps of the sea. Beneditx said, ‘Later, they focus on the world. Later, they see the visible universe around them. But what do you see there now?’
‘Infinity,’ said Severo.
‘At first they see only God.’
‘Yes, Beneditx. But I will show you another thing. Come with me.’
The sun had descended, and dusk had crept over Ciudad while the little scene in Severo’s cell was played. Now, as the two friends stepped on to the balcony, the evening star shone like a bright candle above the lemon tree’s fragrant branches, and the garden below them was a pool of shadow, in which gradually, as they stepped away from the light of Severo’s open door, their eyes distinguished the fountain, the path, the bench. Severo led the way down the stair into the dark garden. With Beneditx close behind him he crossed the garden and opened the little wicket-gate at the far end. Beyond was a yard, within a high curtain wall, cluttered with gear – barrels, carts, tools, a stack of roofing tiles, and blocks of masonry waiting for the repair of some quoin of the great building. Beneditx blinked at the dim obstructions.
Severo called, ‘Jaime?’
A voice answered at once from the mason’s shack, ‘Holiness?’
‘Have you offered food tonight?’
‘Not yet, Holiness. I was waiting till darkness.’
‘Try now. Can we have a lantern?’
‘Best not, Holiness. It is so hated . . .’
‘Very well, then. Open the cage and fetch the food.’
At that moment someone high up above them in the prebends’ house lit lamps, and the glow from the window cast a glancing and indirect light into the yard. The youth called Jaime departed by a door into the bowels of the building, and there was silence. Then there was a scuttling sound from behind a tilted cart. Severo put a hand on Beneditx’s sleeve, as though to restrain him from movement. Something ran out from behind the cart. It ran on all fours with a lolloping movement. It lurched from side to side of the narrow yard, as though looking for a way out. Beneditx thought of a dog – a mangy dog. It squatted in the darkness by the stack of tiles and urinated. The warm stench reached him. Then it came towards him. He moved, suddenly, stepping backwards, saying, ‘Severo . . .’
The beast snarled at him. It growled ferociously and bared its teeth, which showed white in the faint illumination from the window. Then suddenly it turned tail and ran, retreating to the furthest corner of the yard, where it turned about again and faced them. He could see nothing but the blue glint of its eyes, glaring at him from near the ground, as once he had seen those of a fox cornered in his father’s barn, visible only by the twin mirrored glint of the lantern.
Jaime returned, bearing a trencher with three bowls.
‘What have you brought?’ asked Severo.
‘The same, Holiness. Milk. Stewed beef and vegetables. Raw meat and bones.’
‘Try.’
Jaime put down the bowls in the dust where the light of the window fell brightest. Then he stepped back into the shadows. They did not have long to wait. The beast crept forward. It sniffed at the bowl of milk, lowered its shaggy head, and drank, lapping like a dog. It sniffed at the second bowl and left it untouched. It sniffed the third bowl only for a second, before lowering its head and bolting the food, seizing the meat between its teeth, raising its head and swallowing rapidly with convulsive movements of its upper body. Then, knocking the bowl away, it took the bone in its mouth, and ran away with it out of sight.
‘Bring a lantern now,’ said Severo.
By its light Beneditx saw a strange sort of bald and flat-faced dog sitting under the cart, holding the bone down with its front paws and rubbing it on the ground to loosen the scraps from it. It tore at the adhering scraps with its teeth, and though it stopped feeding briefly to snarl at Jaime when he came too near it with the lantern, it had no attention to spare from its food. Beneditx saw also, in the swinging lamplight, the face of the cardinal’s kennel boy, taut with some storm of feeling – fear? loathing? – and moist as with sweat or tears.
‘Come away,’ said Severo, pulling on his sleeve. ‘Jaime will lock her in again.’
‘A bitch of some kind?’ asked Beneditx, mystified, standing again in the garden, in the fountain of fragrance released by the lemon tree into the night air, under a thickening plethora of stars.
Severo spoke gravely, even gently, but with a shake in his voice. ‘That also, you see, Beneditx, is an unbaptized child.’
Severo’s cell, when the two men re-entered it, was full of the frantic raucous sound of the babe. Its face was puckered and red, and it was emitting a hacking, desperate cry, at full lung. The woman, very agitated, was rocking and shushing it. Of course, thought Severo, ruefully, she is locked in.
‘I’m sorry, Holiness, sorry, but she is so hungry . . .’
‘Feed her, then,’ he said.
‘May I? Here?’
‘Certainly. The poor thing is in urgent need, from the sound of her.’
Severo spoke calmly, but he seemed greatly taken aback when the woman, instead of bringing a beaker of milk from her bundle, sat down on the floor and, blushing deeply, uncovered her breast and put the babe to her nipple. The babe shook its head from side to side for a second and latched on hard. The crying ceased abruptly, and in the sweet silence that followed Severo could hear funny little sniffling and sucking sounds. Once, as if to punish its mother for her tardy response, the babe released the nipple and uttered a single afterthought of a cry. A tiny fountain of milk spattered its face; pinching her swelling breast between finger and thumb, the woman guided the nipple again into the urgent little mouth. The child’s tiny hand lay delicately couched on the white cushion of flesh, with its marbling of blue veins, and as the two men watched, a sense of ease slowly infused the process before them. The child sucked less violently, and its lids drooped and opened again. And the mother’s face, so bitten and hard-lined and worldly, took on an expression of angelic calm and joy. Then the babe fell suddenly asleep, and the woman pulled her clothes to cover herself again and sat still.
‘What is your name?’ Severo asked her, speaking quietly.
‘Maria, Holiness.’
‘The babe’s name?’
‘Felicia.’
‘And the father’s name?’
‘I do not know, Holiness.’
‘He left without telling you his name?’
‘It was Pere, or Felip, but they both deny it.’
‘Heaven help us! How will you live?’
‘I am a gypsy, Holiness. We know how to live. Most of us never marry.’
‘And when you come to die? What then?’
‘We call for a priest. All is forgiven us.’
‘You do very wrong. That is a wicked heresy.’
Beneditx said, ‘Severo, I promised her if she lent me the babe no harm would come to them.’
‘I have no other mind than yours,’ said Severo. ‘Maria, what is your heart’s desire, in all the world?’
‘A blue silk shawl, Holiness.’
‘And for the child?’
‘Enough to eat for seven years. That makes a child grow beautiful.’
Severo nodded. ‘May I hold her?’ he asked. He stooped and took the babe from its mother’s arms, while she got to her feet. He reached for a little flask of water that stood beside his bed. The babe in the crook of his arm burped, and its parted lips brimmed with a trickle of creamy regurgitated milk. Severo poured a drop of the water on its downy head, and said, ‘Ego baptiso te Felicia, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen. Will three gold pistoles feed her for seven years?’
‘Easily, Holiness.’
‘And a fourth would buy a blue silk shawl?’
The woman nodded. Severo took a paper and wrote. He gave it to the woman. ‘Bring this to the sacristy in the cathedral tomorrow, and the treasurer will pay you four gold pistoles. The child is my god-daughter; you may bring her to me for a dowry, but only if she is to be married at an altar. Do you understand?’
‘Thank you, Holiness.’
‘And, Maria, sometimes pray for me. Good night.’
Beneditx led Maria all the way back to the gatehouse, smiling sweetly at scowling faces till the outer gate was closed on the woman, and order was restored.
Returning to Severo’s cell, he asked, ‘Have you ever seen that before?’
‘Never,’ said Severo.
‘Nor I, my friend. Or, rather, only in paintings. Paintings of the Virgin.’
‘There is such a painting in Piedmont. I saw it when I travelled as a young man. It shows that little jet of milk as the child turns its head . . . I took it to be an allegory, a representation of the flow of human kindness from mother to child. It never occurred to me . . .’
‘That it could be real?’
‘That it could be true in the flesh. But then, I would have doubted the possibility of either an atheist or a wolf-child. Come to me in the morning and let us talk in earnest.’